


Turn the World to Gold

by yeats



Series: hearts and bones [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Light Bondage, M/M, Reunion Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 13:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7269568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeats/pseuds/yeats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cristiano Ronaldo doesn't win the Ballon d'Or.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn the World to Gold

**Author's Note:**

> just. a lot of sex.

From the other side of hotel windows, all cities are the same at night: the wan pools of sallow light from street lamps, the uncertain silhouettes of unfamiliar buildings, the low thrum of traffic wending its way through too-narrow streets.

Ricky stands in front of the sliding balcony doors, tries to find Lake Zurich somewhere in the darkness. The glass throws back too much of his own reflection, so he steps forward until he's nose-to-nose with the cool surface. Each exhaled breath fogs up the glass further, though, until he can’t see anything at all.

He’s staying half a mile away from the ceremonies, at the sort of discreetly luxurious hotel favored by bankers and CEOs, rather than athletes and movie stars. They’d offered him a suite at the Park Hyatt when he’d agreed to be a presenter, but he’d wanted something a little more low-profile, a bit further from the center of the storm.

A knock on the door.

Plus, it's closer to the airport.

Ricky opens the door with a half-smile already on his lips. "You made it."

Banked by the lights from the hall, the lines of Cris’s suit look razor-sharp. He’s perfectly centered in the doorway, like a mannequin in a department store window, and for a moment Ricky can’t see anything but the megawatt glint of his cufflinks, the slick fronts of his teeth.

Ricky glances past him; they’re alone. Slowly, he reaches out, brushes the hem of Cris’s tuxedo jacket. The faintest bit of pressure, down through layers of fabric to his hip below -- just enough for Cris to feel it.

Cris’s eyes drop to Ricky’s hand with laser-like intensity, then back to his face. He blinks, and blinks again.

Without moving, a thousand tiny adjustments ripple out through Cris’s muscles, recalibrating his center of gravity and the precise alignment of his limbs until his body looks lived in. His expression loses that movie star glaze, softening around the eyes and his mouth. A new set of lines has taken up residence there since the last time Ricky had a chance to study him up close.

"Hey, Ricky," he says at last. There’s a roundness in his vowels that makes them sound stiff and sleepy at the same time. "Can I come in?"

As if he'd ever needed to ask. It'd be cruel to laugh, so Ricky only smiles wider. "Of course."

They take five steps inside once the door’s shut, five silly, unnecessary nods to lingering propriety. Cris’s fingers bracelet Ricky's wrist midway through the sixth, tugging him back with a soft noise. Ricky turns, and Cris has already crowded up behind him, shoulders hunched forwards and chin jutting down. He falls into Ricky's embrace like a black hole.

"Fuck." His lips catch the edge of Ricky's mouth.

"Yeah." Ricky cups the base of Cris’s skull, brushing the buzzed hairs at the nape of his neck. He’s changed his hair gel, the old scent of citrus replaced with something richer, darker. Ricky inhales deeply, sweeps his other hand up and down Cris’s spine. "I know."

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of their reflection in the full-length mirror. In their matching tuxedos, they look like figurine toppers on a wedding cake.

Raised voices in the hall, and they both freeze. Guilt blooms sickly sweet in Ricky’s stomach, but he reminds himself it's just a vestigial remnant from another life -- he doesn't have to pretend to feel bad for this anymore.

Cris fists his hands in Ricky’s shirtfront. "Don’t move."

"I wasn’t," Ricky protests.

"It’s all under control -- Jorge’s handling it." He keeps a tight grip, speaking fast, as though he's afraid Ricky will bolt.

"That was good of him."

"I may not have given him much of a choice," Cris admits. "Besides, I was being such a miserable fuck, they were all glad to get rid of me."

"It’s good to see you." Ricky laces Cris’s fingers through his own.

"Part of me was still hoping that we'd be celebrating right now." Cris's smile is more like a grimace. "Stupid, I know, but."

"Hey," Ricky says. "Not stupid."

"I never would have come anyway, except I didn’t want to look like a diva. Plus, when you said you were presenting -- " He gives a one-shouldered shrug. "Better than nothing, right?"

Ricky's chest aches. "Come here," he sighs, even though they're already standing close.

He kisses the high ridge of Cris's left cheekbone, just for the way Cris's eyes always flutter closed when he does that. Does the same on Cris's other cheek, and feels Cris release a drawn-out breath at the symmetry. The paper-thin skin at the corners of his eyelids is stained purple with exhaustion.

Standing on stage tonight, he couldn't do anything to help. When they handed him the white envelope, he gripped it so hard the corners creased, trying to will its contents to say Cris's name -- but the sheet of paper was as disobedient and unalterable as a recurring nightmare or the clicking scar tissue in his knee.

"I can't stay long," Cris says, sad and small. "Perez wants me back to do press before training tomorrow, and before that I have to drive Cristianinho to school -- he's bringing one of my hat trick balls for show-and-tell."

Ricky slides his palms over the lapels on Cris’s chest. "How long do you have?"

"Three hours." He worries his lip, a rare imperfection they still haven't steam-pressed out of him. Those new parenthetical lines around his mouth impress a little deeper.

Ricky glances at the clock on the nightstand. It's not enough time. But then, there's never been enough time for them. A few hours here, a night there. Of all his sins, it's greed that Ricky feels most acutely, the miserly accounting he keeps in his mind of their shared time together. Or perhaps envy, of all the hours and days (weeks, months, years) that he can't have.

Ricky sets his thumb against the bow of Cris's bottom lip, tugging until his teeth release and catch on Ricky's callouses instead. Cris breathes out through his nose and bites -- not hard, just a little nip, like a young dog testing its bounds.

"All right," Ricky says. He guides Cris's mouth to his own, kisses him properly until they're both breathless.

Gravity draws them inexorably towards the bed. Ricky shucks his tuxedo without fanfare, letting his clothes litter the floor -- desire has always made him a little careless.

When he turns back, though, Cris has only managed to take off his jacket. He holds it aloft, fingers pinching the shoulder seams. There’s a solemn, lost look about him.

"Something the matter?"

"Do you have a hanger? I don’t want it to wrinkle. Jorge’s orders," he adds, with that same wincing smile.

"Of course," Ricky replies. He eases the jacket out of Cris’s hands, folding it carefully over his arm. Steps forward and slides his fingers through the loops of Cris's bow tie, just below the half-moon dip of his clavicle.

"This whole day has sucked," Cris huffs, glaring up at the ceiling as if it were somehow to blame. "This isn't even the tie I wanted to wear."

"I like it," Ricky says mildly, picking apart the knot with careful fingers. "It's very dashing."

"No, it's a fucking mess -- the right side kept falling down, no matter how many times I redid it, and the band is way too big for the collar, it looked ridiculous --" He’s spiraling out, the way he used to do during a match when the goals just wouldn’t come.

Ricky tugs his tie, pulling the fabric taut around Cris's neck.

"Cris." He makes his voice firm. Controlled. "Stop that."

Cris's eyes go wide, then slide rapturously shut. Ricky pulls again, digging into Cris’s skin just a bit more -- and Cris's cock pushes against Ricky's thigh, fully hard.

Ricky leans forward. "Let me?" he says, into the shell of Cris’s ear. They both know what he's asking.

Ricky feels Cris swallow against the fabric. His eyes, when he opens them again, are almost black.

"Please," Cris says. When Ricky moves to capture his lips again, he sways into it, beseeching, unmoored.

Ricky undresses him piece-by-piece: unlatches his cufflinks, plucks open each button of his dress shirt and unloops his belt. Cris stands pliant, allowing Ricky to adjust his limbs for better access, leaning into each pass of Ricky’s hands. When Ricky nudges him towards the bed, he sinks down easily. His tongue dabs his bottom lip as he watches Ricky pull off his trousers and slip off shoes.

"Wait here. I’ll be right back," Ricky says. Obviously, but he can see it makes Cris smile a little to hear it.

He hangs Cris's clothes in the closet, tugging the sleeves of the tuxedo jacket to hang evenly over his folded trousers and smoothing the buttons of his dress shirt. Their shoes line up next to one another, a neat little row.

Limited possibilities present themselves in the discreet compartment zipped into the lining of his suitcase. Condoms, obviously -- Ricky tears one off from the sleeve, tucks it into his palm. Lube, repackaged in an unmarked, security-approved 3 oz. bottle. Beyond that, though, there's little to work with: an eye mask, resting against the curled length of what less experienced eyes might take for jump rope, neon-green physio tape wrapped around each bristled end to disguise the silken material of each strand. Underneath it, a pair of terrycloth wristbands, like a fitness instructor might wear, and a rosewood hairbrush, its handle worn smooth with use even as its bristles remain pristine. Nothing that might attract the suspicion of a prurient security agent, nothing without an innocent explanation.

Ricky considers his options, running his fingers over each in turn. He pauses at the brush, but then thinks about the flight back to Madrid, the unforgiving seats in the Real Madrid press conference room. Grabs the rope and wristbands instead.

Cris is still wearing his socks and briefs; somehow those paltry scraps of fabric make him seem even more naked. The vaulted arches of his ribcage expand and contract in a precise pattern: seven beats inhale and ten beats exhale. It’s the same rhythm that Ricky uses to talk Cris down when he calls late at night, a long-distance substitute for what he really needs.

"All right?"

Cris’s gaze passes over his naked form like a caress, so heavy that Ricky can almost feel it. His eyes go wide when he sees the rope wrapped around Ricky's fist and trailing down his side.

"Ricky," he murmurs, faint.

Ricky waits, but that seems to be all he wanted to say. That’s all right. They’ll get there.

The soft carpet eases the strain as he kneels before the pillars of Cris's legs. One at a time, he pulls off Cris's socks and allows himself to linger there, cupping Cris's bare right foot in his hand and tracing the tendons. Cris shivers, already sensitive -- Ricky digs his thumbs the arch of his foot, kneading the tight muscle and easing away the stiffness.

"Come on," Cris says through gritted teeth, "we don't have time --"

Ricky cuts him off with a pinch to the inside of his thigh.

"Settle," he warns, and switches to the other foot. There's a incongruous smudge of what looks like dirt on the heel; hopeless affection spikes in Ricky's chest at the sight of it. He runs his fingers in arcing paths across Cris's ankle, strokes the bowstring-tautness of his Achilles' tendon. "How's your knee? Any problems?"

"It's fine. Good," says Cris, too easily.

Another pinch, the left thigh this time. Cris bites back a swear; his muscles convulse under Ricky's palm.

"Still sore, sometimes," he chokes out. "Mornings."

Ricky kisses his ankle, flattens his tongue over the flared bone. He mouths his way up the sleek curve of Cris's calf, solid and smooth all at once, like marble draped in satin. In the low light, he can’t quite see the red marks his stubble leaves, but he feels the feverish flush on Cris’s skin, hears Cris's hissing little breaths.

Cris's knees fall open to let Ricky drag his lips along the seam of his quad. He skids his hips forward on the bed, crowding into Ricky's space -- putting himself on display.

And oh, Ricky’s tempted to keep take him up on it. He could keep going, all the way up to the joint of Cris's thigh, prop Cris's leg over his shoulder and sink his face into the sweet curve of his ass. Open Cris up with his tongue until he was weak and shivery, until Ricky could slide inside of him with barely a hitching breath, and just stay there for hours.

Another time.

Ricky drags his fingers over Cris's ankle -- still damp -- one last time, and stands. His own knee aches a little, but it's an old and distant pain, easily ignored. The heavy weight of Cris’s gaze as Ricky climbs onto the bed beside him renders everything else meaningless, party chatter from another room.

"You remember how this works," he says. Tips Cris's jaw to face him.

Cris swallows against Ricky's hand. "I tell you how it feels. If I don't like it anymore, I say, 'stop,' and we stop."

"Good." Ricky strokes Cris's neck. "Go ahead, lie down."

Cris rushes to comply, kicking the coverlet to the foot of the bed in a heap. He plants his heels in the mattress, thighs splayed like an outstretched embrace. One hand sneaks down towards the damp spot on his briefs -- but Ricky clears his throat and he catches himself, pressing his palms flat against his sides instead.

"Eager," Ricky notes.

"No shit." Cris gives him a look, arching one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Come on. Don’t mess around with me."

"Never," Ricky promises. Taking up the bands, he slides one past each of Cris’s hands, settling the soft fabric over Cris’s pulse points.

"Very stylish," Cris says, though his voice is thready, and his heartbeat flutters like a tiny bird’s wings against Ricky’s thumbs. "Like an eighties aerobics video."

Ricky clicks his tongue against his teeth. "I don’t want to leave you with any bruises. Not there, at least." He guides Cris to interlace his fingers, then draws his hands over his head, elbows perpendicular to the mattress.

The rope is cool and familiar against his palm. He trails a doubled-over loop down Cris's chest, following the seam of his abs. Pulls it away just before it brushes Cris’s underwear, the tip of his erection poking past the waistband.

"Easy, easy," Ricky says, a reminder to himself as much as to Cris. He winds the rope around the bands in a figure-eight pattern, careful not to let it touch Cris’s bare skin or cut off circulation to his hands. A simple knot to tie it all off -- nothing fancy, but it’ll serve its purpose.

Ricky first learned to tie knots as a boy, camping trips in the Pantanal with his father -- and then learned again, on nights like this, with Cristiano. It's all the same principle, really: binding things together, keeping things secure.

He looks down at Cris, and all his breath leaves him in a rush.

"Oh, _meu bem_. Look at you."

It used to scare Ricky sometimes how hungry he was for Cris, how much he wanted -- and how having it only made the wanting sharper. It wasn't lustful abandon; he might have been able to handle it if it were. He didn't become someone else at the sight of the hollow behind Cris’s knee, or the sound of hidden laughter in his voice. The opposite, really. Wanting Cris felt familiar, and right: like wanting to win trophies, wanting to be a good father, a good man. The shock of recognition frightened him more than anything else.

He touches the side of Cris's face with two fingers. "Good?"

Cris's forearms flex, testing. He licks his lips. "Good."

Ricky favors him with a kiss, sweet and fleeting. He works Cris’s underwear off, and Cris's cock bobs up to meet him, as gorgeous as Ricky remembered.

"Hello, there," Ricky says, an odd swell of fondness in his chest, as though seeing an old friend. He takes Cris in hand, revelling in the familiar hot weight of him, the faint latticework of delicate veins that run along the shaft. The velvet-smooth head is glossy with precome, and Ricky ducks down to greet it properly: with a kiss.

"Fuck!" Cris thrusts up, smearing that dark sharp taste across Ricky’s closed lips. His wrists grind against the rope; without the bands, he’d be leaving deep welts. Tomorrow they'd blossom into a bracelet of bruises.

" _Calma_ ," Ricky says, " _Calma,_ Cris," and bars his forearm across Cris’s pelvis, pinning his hips to the mattress. He folds his other hand over Cris’s bound wrists, shifts his weight forward in increments until he’s holding Cris down, until Cris can feel himself being held down. He dusts a kiss over Cris's brow, waits ten beats.

At four, Cris blinks. Blinks again at five -- and smiles.

"Ricky." His voice barely stirs the air around them. When Ricky takes his hands away, he doesn’t even move.

Ricky strokes his hair. "There you are, _meu lindo_." He catches Cris’s mouth and kisses him again, lets Cris seek out traces of himself on the corners of his mouth. " _Minha vida. Está tudo bem_."

He fumbles through the sheets for the rest of the supplies. The lube, he tucks against his side to warm it, and rips open the condom package with his teeth.

The crinkling foil draws Cris’s attention. "Really?" A faint line troubles his brow -- they haven't used condoms since the divorce.

"It’s just to save us time later -- less to clean up." Ricky gentles a hand down Cris’s flank. "That's all."

Cris shakes his head. "I want you to come inside me. I want to feel it." His eyes are bright, fierce.

Ricky tosses the condom away. He’s not sure where it ends up; he wasn’t looking.

To hell with Jorge. With Jorge, and Florentino Perez, and Sepp Blatter and Lionel Messi and the entire world outside of this room.

The clock on the nightstand glows red in warning, but Ricky goes slow, coating his fingers in so much lube that it drenches half his palm. He preps Cris carefully, savoring each cracked little moan that escapes Cris’s lips. Even after everything tonight, Cris is still so tight, the muscles here as strong as everywhere else. By the time Ricky has three fingers inside, Cris is dripping with sweat, drops of it catching the light across every inch of his bare skin and limning the planes of his body in gold. He presses his forehead against his bicep, breathing shallowly, grinding down on Ricky’s fingers, fucking himself open.

Ricky slicks himself, lube mingling with precome. Pleasure knifes through his stomach at the touch of his own hand, startling him into a choked-off gasp. He hadn't realized how aroused he was until now, his own needs subordinated to Cris’s. He squeezes the base of his cock, takes a moment’s composure.

Nudging Cris’s knees further apart, he slots himself in between the warm cradle of Cris’s thighs. Lines himself up with one hand, and cups the underside of Cris’s jaw with the other, guiding him to face forwards.

"Watch," he says.

Cris swallows. Nods.

Ricky slides in slow and deep, doesn’t stop until he can feel every centimeter of Cris, clutching and fluttering around him. He’s blisteringly hot, an exquisite scorching flame that sets Ricky ablaze as soon as he’s seated inside of him, their bodies joined together like metal melted down in the heat of a forge.

"Okay?" he asks.

Cris opens his mouth to breathe, and Ricky’s name comes out instead, slurred and wrecked. He’s still watching, just like Ricky told him to -- keeps watching as Ricky begins to roll his hips, shifting the angle fractionally until one thrust makes Cris’s hips judder and his pulse leap under Ricky’s thumb. His back arches up from the mattress, arms flexing helplessly in his bonds.

"Does that feel good?" he asks, even though he can tell. He does it again, builds up a rhythm of short, deep strokes that pin Cris to the bed. He can’t bear to pull out all the way, can’t bear to allow any distance between them. Falling to one elbow, he drapes himself over Cris like a blanket, bodies pressed together, heaving hearts aligned within their chests. Their lips skid against one another, slotting together briefly then slipping apart, Ricky’s stubble rasping Cris’s mouth raw.

Cris twists and writhes beneath him, taut as a plucked string in an archer’s bow. His eyes are dark, drugged with pleasure, and the flush staining his chest continues all the way down. Little sobs tear from deep in his throat with each thrust, his teeth flashing white inside his bruised-peach mouth. He’s so beautiful.

Ricky reaches down between their bodies, gets a hand on Cris's cock -- and the sudden silky clench of Cris around him knocks all the air from his lungs.

"Ah, good," Ricky murmurs, "that’s -- good, baby, _sim,_ " meaningless chatter slipping out. His own voice sounds tinny and distant below the blood roaring in his ears. It's going too fast; it'll all be over so soon. It's not fair. He strokes Cris with something approaching desperation, drops his head into the crook of Cris’s neck. He bites out a frustrated sob, tasting his own sweat on Cris’s skin. His vision is narrowing, his thoughts scattering and dissolving, every superfluous part of his existence melting away. The edge rushes up to meet him, but he can’t, Cris still hasn’t --

"Ricky." Cris’s breath ruffles his hair, cool on his overheated skin. "Ricky, it’s okay. It’s okay." He presses his lips to the crown of Ricky’s head, and that’s it -- Ricky’s coming, coming apart into a thousand shining pieces. The molten clutch of Cris’s body -- the hitching gasp, the shudder and the sudden spill into Ricky’s palm -- holds him in place, keeps him from disintegrating entirely.

Time slips in and out of focus, lying together like this, skin cooling, heartbeats settling back down. Ricky keeps his eyes closed as long as he dares. When he opens them, Cris is looking down at him. There’s a dopey smile on his face.

"All right?" Ricky asks. The metallic tang of adrenaline still clings to the insides of his gums.

Cris nods. "Mmm." It takes two or three tries for the movement of his lips to match up properly with the sound, like one of those dubbed telenovas Ricky used to watch after school as a kid.

He gets this way, sometimes. The first time it happened, it frightened Ricky, seeing how sex could take Cris so far outside himself. But now Ricky knows better. That slackness of his mouth, the slight fuzziness of his gaze isn’t distance -- it's peace.

Ricky gets them cleaned up, unties the rope and slides the bands off Cris’s wrists. He checks for bruises, massages the feeling back into Cris’s hands. Presses a kiss to the base of each palm, at the juncture of the deep lines that run there.

Cris’s fingers flutter over his cheek, stroking his brow.

\---

After, Ricky walks Cris to the door. Showered and dressed again, Cristiano Ronaldo’s back, each layer of armor carefully reapplied. Even his hair looks impeccable. (Although of course he’d bitched about having to use Ricky’s sub-par products.)

Jorge’s waiting in the lobby, and there’s a sleek black car at the back exit, a plane idling on a runway. They’re already fifteen minutes late. -- careless in desire, indeed. Still, Ricky slides a hand through the vent of Cris’s tuxedo, cups the warm dip of his waist.

"Ricky," Cris says, a quiet warning. He sways into Ricky’s touch, but Ricky stays firm, holds him up.

"Tell Junior I say hi, yeah?"

A smile crosses Cris’s features -- it always does, when he talks about his son. "Of course. But he’ll want to know when he’s going to see you again." As always, he’s a terrible actor.

Ricky rubs his knuckles over Cris’s vertebrae. "I'll see you both soon."

He moves his hands to safer places: tugs the two sides of Cris’s jacket to even them out, swipes away invisible lint off his lapels, pulls a button that’s gotten stuck halfway through its hole. He even reties that dumb bowtie twice before accepting defeat -- and sure enough, there really is something wrong with the right side. Cris lets him fiddle; they both know without saying that each little meaningless task lets them touch a bit longer.

A moment of déja vu strikes: stoppage time at the Bernabéu, a free kick thirty yards out. Cris was lining up to take the kick; Ricky remembers how he’d had that awful stoic look on his face, even though they’d already basically won. And how that look had cleared, just for a moment, when Ricky grasped his shoulders and squeezed gently, silently wishing him good luck.

Maybe that had been the first time he’d realized what this was. Maybe it wasn’t.

In the present, Cris's phone buzzes twice in his pocket. A moment later, Ricky's phone echoes it from the nightstand. Jorge's patience is reaching its limits.

Cris opens his mouth, the apology already carved into his brow -- Ricky kisses him instead, as long and as deep as he dares.

"Go," he says. Forces himself to take two steps back. "Before Jorge sets a fire as a diversion and comes to get you himself."

"He'd never --" Cris breaks off. "Ok, yeah. Fair enough." He sweeps three fingers over the inside of Ricky’s elbow, one last time, then lets go.

Ricky unlocks the deadbolt, but then steps back against the wall, minimizing the line of sight from the hallway. Cris steps up to the door with the same resolve as he took that free kick. Then as now, the breath of hesitation before he opens it and steps through is only visible if you know to look for it.

" _Oi, gostoso._ "

Halfway out into the hall, Cris turns. The pleased little flush on his cheeks makes him look five years younger. "Yeah?"

"One last thing." Ricky grins, pitching his voice low. "Just imagine what I’m going to do, the next time you _win_ a trophy."

Cris’s laughter lingers in the air, long after Ricky’s closed the door behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> yes, kaká actually really the winner of the ballon d'or at this year's ceremony. and he was [visibly displeased](http://freekicks.tumblr.com/post/137104485546) with the winner. and cris was actually [visibly gobsmacked](http://freekicks.tumblr.com/post/137117651656/crynaldo-i-will-never-get-over-this-all-hail) to see kaká again. everything else is speculation on my part, begun roughly [ninety seconds](http://freekicks.tumblr.com/post/137103731461/gutilicious-ok-so-who-is-writing-me) after the ceremony.
> 
> title comes from carly rae jepsen's ["run away with me,"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TeccAtqd5K8) because that's who i am as a person right now.
> 
> all the love in the world to both [Hyb](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyb/pseuds/Hyb) and [ehhhntonces](http://ehhhntonces.tumblr.com/) for shepherding this story along, convincing me not to give up, and showering me with heaps of encouraging praise even when it was least warranted.
> 
> if you're still stuck in 2012 like me, hit me up [@freekicks](http://freekicks.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
